


dry ace

by pseudocitrus



Series: deal [2]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, Rimming, Size Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who can say how fast or slowly time goes for either of them?</p><p>All he knows is that he gets bored, very easily.</p><p>And yet, this hasn’t stopped being incredibly entertaining.</p><p>At least for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dry ace

**Author's Note:**

> written from some hcs with neimana :)
> 
> hope you have a good day ahead!

Who can say how fast or slowly time goes for either of them?

All he knows is that he gets bored, very easily.

And yet, this hasn’t stopped being incredibly entertaining.

At least for him.

“Is this all that it is?”

It’s Arima’s question, asked with sweat still sheened on his forehead. His glasses are still somehow perfectly aligned, and Furuta flicks his finger at one side to tilt them.

“ _This_?”

“This.” Arima straightens his glasses, and his eyes skim briefly across the room, indicating. Their clothing scattered, the bed messy and moist, Furuta lounging in a ridiculously massive collared shirt. _This._

Furuta frowns. “You’re bored?”

“I just wonder if there’s something else,” Arima replies.

Furuta’s frown deepens into a disgusted grimace. What is this, some kind of mid-life crisis? Well, since it’s Arima, maybe it’s a little more like later-ish-life crisis. Furuta could have sworn that just a month or so ago Arima still had some hairs that were pale gray. He’s practically becoming an old man before Furuta’s very eyes, and he isn’t thankful for some consistent, dedicated fucking?

“Well,” Furuta says, examining his fingernails, “if you’re talking about _life,_ I don’t think there’s much to it aside from _this._ ”

Having fun. Getting ass. Like, of course he has agendas and all the identities or whatever going on, but to be honest, this is about as good as it gets.

…well. Maybe it _could_ be a little bit better.

“Listen, Kissho-san. If you’re starting to think that _this_ is a little stale…” Furuta grins over at him. “Of course there are ways we could spice it up.”

:::

They try all of it. Leather, feathers, chains, plastic, glass, strung-together-candy…

“Where do you get all of this?” Arima asks, just a little breathlessly, when Furuta pries out the gag, and Furuta smiles and pats his head.

“Here and there.”

Furuta has to admit that it was a pretty good idea on Arima’s part to ramp things up. He looks great in ropes, and muzzles, and ribbons, and pretty much anything else. And his stamina is fantastic. Even with those big arms twisted up behind his back and that ass tilted up and reddened with a couple well-applied palms, fucking him is like sticking it into a very nice, sturdy pillow. One that is getting very accustomed to Furuta’s shape.

Furuta wipes Arima’s saliva away with his thumb and Arima turns his face into Furuta’s hand. The motion causes Furuta to kinda cradle Arima’s cheek, and Furuta laughs and gives it a light smack. Arima looks at him.

“And your ideas of what to do. You just think of it, and do it when we meet up together?”

“Well…yeah. I just think of it.”

And sometimes he needs to pinch his thighs together pretty harshly during meetings, and more often than not he scrolls through the pictures of Arima he’s taken to get inspiration when they’re not together, but, that’s maybe not too relevant now.

Speaking of which, back then, Arima always had the best expressions for Furuta’s camera. Smiling isn’t really part of his repertoire, but sometimes his cheeks get just a little flushed, and his hard gaze goes soft. Expressions like these never lasted long but at least they were _there._ Presently, Arima is looking off into the distance, and Furuta snaps his fingers impatiently in front of Arima’s face.

“Hey,” he says. “I put a lot of effort into this. You’re just gonna take it and zone out? Where’s my ‘thank you?’”

“Thank you,” Arima says. He turns back. He fixes his gaze.

“Furuta,” he says. “Next time, I’d like to try one of my ideas too.”

:::

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, _oh no._

It’s been forever. Like, seriously, a _really_ long time. He barely remembers the last person. And he doesn’t even have anything to warm himself up with, really, and then he goes and doesn’t get anything because part of him just kind of hopes that Arima will forget, and of course Arima doesn’t.

And all of this is _before_ Furuta remembers how absolutely monstrous Arima is. Too soon, their clothes are off, removed by Arima and laid folded on a chair arranged nearby for the express purpose. Arima stands over him, pumping himself steadily, and Furuta feels his stomach curling up, and Arima reaches and gently cradles Furuta’s soft dick.

“Do you still want to do this?”

“Of course,” Furuta sputters.

“Do _you_?” Furuta demands.

Arima is examining him.

“Is it your first time?” Arima asks, and Furuta at first is offended and then relieved.

“Yeah,” he lies. “So take it easy, alright? Don’t force it or anything.”

“Of course,” Arima says. “Understood.”

He leans. Their bodies line up; Arima’s weight rests against him, centimeter by centimeter, legs and hips, and Furuta stiffens. Surely — surely he’s not just going to straight-up and —

Tummy, chest. Arima’s face is right above his now and Furuta opens his mouth to try and guide him otherwise and Arima opens his mouth too, and kisses him.

It’s light. Their lips press and part and Furuta doesn’t even finish taking another breath before Arima is at it again, this time deeper, this time with his tongue easing between Furuta’s teeth, caressing the roof of his mouth and curling against Furuta’s tongue.

Furuta shivers. Kisses are not his thing, really. Having someone’s face that close to his…

But…Arima’s closed eyes…and his long, silvery lashes…

For some reason, the warmth in his body is starting in a different place than usual. Lava molten, dripping down from his brows and his sternum. When Arima withdraws, Furuta finds himself leaving his mouth open invitingly, but all that happens is he lets out a long exhale as Arima kisses the skin beside his right eye, the line of his jaw, his swallowing throat, his nipple, the curve beneath his bicep, the…the…um…fuck.

His cock is starting to perk up. Arima straightens up, fingers running along Furuta’s body. He adjusts his glasses. Okay. Okay. Maybe this won’t…won’t be that bad…afterall.

The lube is still propped up on Arima’s bedside table, and Furuta starts to twist to reach for it, but Arima stops him, and spreads Furuta’s legs with two hands on his knees. Then he pulls Furuta’s face off the bed, and kneels between them, and opens his mouth.

Well. Alright. Sure. Furuta drags a couple pillows beneath his head and feels himself harden  further, inexorably, under Arima’s sucks and lavings, until his dick is long and hard enough to prod against Arima’s cheek.

Furuta sighs as Arima pulls away, leaving Furuta gleaming with saliva and the first tiniest stream of juice. Arima’s taken him like this before, of course. For such a wordless guy, he really can work his mouth. What isn’t familiar is what Arima does next.

“H-hey,” Furuta stammers, but Arima places a palm on Furuta’s lower belly, calming, as he takes one ball and then another into his mouth, and massages them against his tongue. He closeness and newness of it makes Furuta choke with sensation — _Wh-what — what the —_ but it’s nothing compared to Arima releasing him, and moving his tongue lower.

Of the two of them, Furuta is the one that’s supposed to be the seasoned veteran, but the sound that escapes him when Arima’s tongue strokes over him is decidedly unprofessional. Arima glances at him and Furuta grabs one of the pillows and flattens it over his face, both to muffle himself and to obscure the sight of his face, which he feels warming at an alarming rate.

_What — what —_

His legs curl, and Arima holds them angled up, and proceeds. Furuta sucks in a breath and with the pillow on the face all of it smells like the tiny fuzzy hairs at nape of Arima’s neck.

 _When the fuck did Arima Kishou learn this?_ Steady laps, light, and wet, upward…upward…upward. Furuta’s legs are folding even more tightly — one of them is trembling — Arima uses the full breadth of his tongue but when Furuta’s muscles pinch, Arima follows the depression with the tip of it instead, prodding. Furuta tightens and Arima’s hand smooths across Furuta’s belly, circling, until Furuta _shudders_ and Arima goes again, further, this time with one finger, and then two. A stroke, and a hook, and then three.

Furuta’s body pulses with every tiny movement. Sweat is turning his hair into tapers. _Yeah, it’s been a long, long time._ Arima works in until he is pumping his fingers in down to the knuckle and Furuta is finding himself matching the rhythm with his bucking hips. This is…this might even feel —

“Good,” Arima says. “For your first time.”

Furuta throws the pillow aside so Arima can hear him curse. “Fuck,” he murmurs as Arima reaches for the lube. “Just use a lot of it. And go slow.”

 _Of course_ , Furuta expects to hear, or yet another _Understood._ Instead, Arima brushes his hair aside and kisses his bare forehead.

“I’ll go slow,” Arima says.

:::

And…he…does.

That Arima might believe this is really Furuta’s first time is sort of laughable, a little pitiful really, but the moment Arima makes his first press _in_ Furuta gulps in his breath and wiggles and whines and for a second he can almost believe it himself, _his first time_ , because for sure no other times ever felt like _this._ Like his whole body is being filled by something he can only barely contain. Arima manages just the head before he encounters resistance, but instead of continuing through, he withdraws, just as slowly as he entered, and then penetrates again.

Going. Slowly.

Laughable. Pitiful. When he pushes the next time Furuta’s body is ready for it, accepts another broad centimeter of him, but not without a charge that goes through his body, a warm and fluffy _zap_ that has his fingers gripping the sheets. This isn’t…bad at all. It’s good. Really, really good.

And he wants more.

His voice curls out of him, a hiss and a whimper. _“Kissho-san.”_ He opens his mouth and Arima presses another kiss to it obligingly and Furuta feels his whole body judder uncontrollably. Arima is so massive. Furuta’s insides, the tight muscles of his nethers and the even more rigid knots scattered across his throat and ribcage have no escape or defense or handy lie. His body simply unravels, another couple centimeters, leaving him trembling and wet and bare.

_Feel._

It goes on, slow. He is a mess already, but finally Arima gets deep enough to nudge up against the core of him, and his facade begins to crumple completely.

 _“Kissho-saaaan,”_ Furuta cries again, but Arima doesn’t hurry, holds his face, thumbing the corner of his helpless mouth. Furuta parts his lips and Arima caresses his tongue and finally, still slowly, sinks all the way in.

S-so…so. He really did take all of it.

_Feel._

It’s never been like this. His body is so full there’s barely room for air, and even his heart is beating so fast that he is afraid it will literally flee the crumples of his body. Arima’s glasses glint and his cock twitches inside of Furuta and Furuta knows suddenly, definitely, that it is the same, that Arima has never felt this way either. This is the first time that he — or anyone — has ever seen Furuta be this pathetic. And surely no one else has ever had this view of the Reaper, either. His hands soft and feeling all over him. His firmly-set mouth tender and tasting him all up. Arima begins to pump in with his whole length, still slow and steadily, even when Furuta wraps his arms around him, even when Furuta’s fingers dig in Arima’s ass to beg for a little more speed.

_Feel._

So few things are really what they seem, but this, Furuta can trust for certain. Pleasure is _real._ He whispers and bites Arima’s ear and is rewarded with a huffed exhale and firm thrust that makes him moan thoughtlessly. Furuta is rocking beneath him and too soon, too fast, Furuta feels the pressure mount inside of him, and before he can gasp at Arima to stop, Arima _pushes_ instead and —

Furuta is coming, coming, spasming around him, crying out into Arima’s mouth, squirting semen so roughly and messily that it smears between the bucking of their bodies. Furuta’s voice hasn’t even been expended before Arima’s rhythm strengthens, deepens. His fingers intertwine with Furuta’s, clenching, and Furuta tries to grip him back but can only manage a few feeble scratchings before Arima orgasms and Furuta finds himself going again, groaning at the overwhelming sensation of it, the wet heat filling him and his own dick spasming and squeezing out the last drops of feeling left in his body.

Afterward — he’s shocked, at the hollow Arima leaves when he extricates himself. The chill is startling and abrupt and before Arima can straighten out, Furuta grabs him and drags him near again. The weight and warmth of him against Furuta’s body feels nice. Arima blinks down at him.

“It was good,” Furuta tells him.

“I see,” Arima replies.

It’s just impulse, then, what happens next. Furuta kisses him, and then buries his face against Arima’s neck. Though their connections usually invigorate him, for some reason, presently, Furuta instead feels pleasantly sleepy.

His next sigh is filled with Arima’s scent. Distantly, he is aware of Arima settling down as well, and the last sight Furuta has is of him, calm, looking off into the distance.

:::

Furuta knows this: pleasure is _real._

And fleeting.

It’s never, _ever_ stayed this long before.

And he’s never wanted it again this intensely.

He catches up to Arima after the debriefing, and even his skipping feels lighter than usual.

“Kissho-san,” Furuta calls, but before he can finish, Arima says, “My apologies.”

He has work all day that day.

:::

And the next.

:::

And the next.

:::

 _It’s nothing,_ Furuta tells himself. _After the raid, he’ll have free time, for sure_.

:::

And he’s right.

After every meeting, Arima no longer makes beelines for his desk. Instead, he can usually be found walking through the hallways. He is always with a book, or else with Sasaki Haise, and a faint, faint smile.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ^^


End file.
